


Pomegranate

by f_m_r_l



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Food Kink, Hand Kink, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-19
Updated: 2010-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_m_r_l/pseuds/f_m_r_l
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes has laid his hands on a pomegranate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pomegranate

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [queerlyobscure](http://queerlyobscure.livejournal.com/) for kindly betaing.
> 
> Mythology was gently modified for the purposes of the story, though less damage has been done to it here than by Christians elsewhere. The god doesn't mind. And his myth makes this mystery fiction. ;-)

It is, so far as I can see, a morning like many of the better ones at 221b Baker Street. Things are not the same as they once were, before Reichenbach Falls, but they are companionable enough. Holmes is neither sunk into despondency nor immersed so deeply in a case as to care for nothing else. When we returned from the theater last night, Holmes played so sweetly upon his violin that for the span of the evening we both forgot whatever awkwardness lay between us. Today it is almost as though the echo of those notes linger in our sitting room.

A trail of toast crumbs and a smudge of egg still grace his breakfast plate, which now bears a single pomegranate, which itself bears the attention of the world's foremost consulting detective. It can be a terrible thing to face the dedicated attention of Sherlock Holmes, but so far the pomegranate has withstood being stroked and weighed by those fair hands, undoubtedly found to be smoothly pebbled, even, and heavy with juice. Still, now that Holmes is determined on a course of action, the pomegranate will soon reveal any remaining mysteries it may have.

His graceful fingers move delicately but decisively along the seam he has scored into the rind of the fruit, pulling to reveal deep red arils against membrane the color of clotted cream. The sharp scent of the ripe fruit cuts across the lingering scents of breakfast, tea, and pipe tobacco. 

Perhaps the genteel way to eat a pomegranate is one of the things he has put out of his head in order to make room for more useful facts, such as the works of Petrarch, medieval pottery, and varieties of Buddhism; his pale digits are tipped red with juice as they roll one of the smooth, moist nubs of carmine sweetness from the bitterness in which it has been mired. One drop of red flows perilously close to his pristine white cuff, and his tongue darts out quickly to lap it up, to trace its path up from where it met his wrist, across the palm of his hand, along one finger. Holmes does not notice — or, more likely, does not care at this moment — that one lock of ebon hair has fallen from its appointed place and curls dark against his forehead.

He slips the plump, gemlike aril onto his tongue and carefully licks the juice away from both his fingertips and his now-slightly-flushed lips. As he bites down gently I fancy I can hear a crunch reminiscent of the sound of footsteps in fresh, cold snow during my childhood. A line from a fairy tale intrudes on my thoughts, "...as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as the wood in this frame." Holmes may be puzzled by the amused look on my face when I involuntarily associate him with Snow White, but at the very least it covers the longing I feel as I watch his progress with the pomegranate. I try to school my face into an expression that will not reach his notice. If Holmes were to be a fairy-tale character, no doubt it would be one that had hidden its heart away in order to become invulnerable. It would not benefit anyone for me to reveal how much, or in what way, I wish things were otherwise.

"From the direction in which you glanced, you are thinking of Persephone and how the pips of the pomegranate bound her to the underworld." Never have I been so glad to have shelved the mythology next to the fairy tales. I go back over my actions to see that I have, indeed, glanced at the bookcase. Holmes's eyes flash like bright water under winter skies as his fingers continue their dance across the pomegranate's flesh. "Do you remember your Greek from school? I would venture to say that you do not know of how the imagery of the pomegranate extends to Dionysus."

I have to agree that I do not.

"Both symbolize rebirth. Dionysus, of course, made an excellent beginning towards that end by literally being born twice — once after he was attacked as a babe and all but his heart was destroyed," Holmes says. I try not to relax too obviously as Holmes's once again contemplates the pomegranate. For some reason he is making me nervous... or tense... or some other thing I don't want to define at the moment. Holmes may take the center of attention as his due; I would rather not be watched to closely. 

"But that is not the reason for his association with the pomegranate." Membrane parts within his deft hands, revealing clusters of ruby beads that almost fall into the plate of their own. "It was his journey into Hades that brought symbols of rebirth and resurrection to him. He descended through a gateway in a bottomless, unswimmable pool that had killed those who had attempted its passage before." 

Holmes's hands still as he pauses. "He vowed to return to the guide who had been with him as he embarked. They were promised to be lovers. But by time time he returned, the man had perished." He picks up a few of the arils and rolls them between his tongue and his pallet. I can see that he is mapping every hint of texture as his eyes close and his head tilts back. He presses his lips together and crushes the arils in his mouth. There is something incredibly erotic in the way his throat moves as he swallows. "Perhaps it is, to use a later term, a Carpe Diem tale.

"But the pomegranate is symbolic in many other religions, too. For example, some Christians believe that the pomegranate was the fruit with which Adam and Eve were tempted in the garden." 

The corner of his mouth quirks into something not quite a smile. 

"But really, dear Watson, after you have been staring so hungrily, I cannot help but offer some to you."

I reach for the plate, but his hands are already moving towards my mouth, flesh now brushing my lips. There is sweetness against my tongue. Then his lips are against mine, dizzying as any wine.

Resurrection. Temptation. And a heart reborn.


End file.
